Choir Poem by Garbiel Morris
Choir
Post-war.
A whole choir.
Robes and all,
sings Gospel.
To no one.
I pass by
noticeably so,
but draw no stares.
It's as if...
I'm not really there.
Sweet, sweet music,
floats uneasily
into the ashy air.
Not joyous,
but unafraid.
Smell of burning flesh,
hangs uneasily
in the afternoon air.
I look down,
and I'm NOT there!
The choir sings on.
For what seems like,
An eternity.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/8/2024 3:46:58 PM # 1.0.0.1119
